flos
by MarginalMary
Summary: They are quickly fading, breaking open to bloom, lovely for a moment untouched. Then their petals fall one by one, and they yearn for spring again.
1. bellis perennis

IDN Bleach.

(This is a rewritten/lengthened version of "daisy chain" which is now a multi-fic)

**Sound: "Nothing Compares 2 You" by Sinead O'Conner**

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**_bellis perennis_**

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I did not live before I met you.

You found me face down, barely breathing and eating dirt. That is not living; that's dying.

But then, you crowned me with daisy chains, saving me from the big bad world I still don't understand. You smiled, holding out your hand; I interlaced our fingers and did not look back, praying you would never let go.

So, I cannot say I'd be better off without you, Gin, because I'd be dead—dead a hundred springs ago. Without you, I wouldn't be anything at all.

But sometimes, I lie, trying to convince other people that I am both very drunk and, conversely, very sane.

Smiling secretly, imagining your mirth if you witnessed the sham I've become asking why I waste my time.

Because you and sanity never kept company—you're a force of nature, nuts and wild, your hands in everything just like spring.

Consequently, my thoughts of you aren't sane, distorted as they are:

Seen through rose-colored glasses.

Is it wrong, Gin?

When I yank the chain around my neck so tight I can't breathe? When I pretend your hand pulls the chain suffocating me?

Definitely wrong—the way I court that _daymare_, numb fingertips reaching out, deprived brain almost sure you're here, your shadow blooming in bloodshot eyes.

I hurt myself to validate the pain I will not show. I pull the chain you gave me to feel again.

And when the tension becomes too much to survive and darkness swallows me whole, I dream of us.

What the hell is wrong with me?

Oh.

You, Gin.

You're what's wrong with me.

I'm desperate to rewrite our history, righting the first mistake you ever made.

Decay to defy to life you gave me.

A last 'fuck you' in memorium to rotting daisy chains.

But when I wake from the breathless stupor, I find my fingers in the wrong places, cupping my neck where you sliced me open and tangled in my chain to touch some part of you, Gin.

A part of you that's still mine.

By far, the worst is the evergreen throbbing, damage rooted too deeply to extract.

A wish blown on dandelions. I yearn for your hands to caress the scar and the chain instead of mine.

So here I am, Gin, looking down at the last stack of paperwork. It's 5:39 in the morning, and I should be feeling some serious pride right now, reveling in my uncharacteristic industry. But I don't.

You stole my pride as easy as picking petals—effortless yet unforgivable.

Instead, I stare blankly at the inter-division memos detailing "_the detainee's_" hearing, judgment, and sentence. There are about 50 pages devoted just to you—your vase runneth over, you seedy bastard.

I need to sign this damn thing to say I have been informed of your impending doom. I have the right to question you, I have the right to plead on your behalf, and I have the right to grant your final request. They gave me full access; permission to hold you one last time.

Almost funny, how little they know you, Gin. Questions, pleas, granting requests. You'd laugh if you read this because we both know I'm not allowed to hold you, barred from your secret garden.

But it's too late, anyway. You've already been condemned, and I lost my chance just like my pride.

In this stack of urbane articulation—all highly official, professionally distant —I discern a trend. A subtext, if you will. _'The prisoner is fucked,'_ it reads over and over and over.

Due to the mind-numbing repetition of paperwork in general, I saved you for last. You always liked bit of variety in your flower arrangements, and the list of your crimes does credit to your range. It's truly staggering; your propensity to ensnare everything you touch, to sow the seeds of despair without even trying. I wonder how much longer this list would be if they included crimes against your fellow schemers; doubtless, you ruined them too.

On and on, the list goes on for ages, the extent of your work so prolific, I have to squint to read the fine print. But that wouldn't be a problem for you—through narrowed eyes, you see the world.

I wish I had been enough, a bit more than I am. Then, you would've had to open those ceil eyes wide just to see how much I loved you, how I bloomed to best effect when you held my hand.

I shouldn't have to read this. I already know what you are. And I can't say "have become." And I can't say "turned out to be." Like I never knew.

Because I would be a liar just like you.

But, perhaps, no more a liar than I already am.

Gin, I deny spring every year without you.

What a legacy—my inheritance, I suppose—an education in the art of double-talk. Knowing how and when to kill with softly spoken lies. How to weave a lovely vine then use it as a noose.

But I do not employ our talent like you do—never. I don't lie to you, don't kill you.

I kill me, Gin, trying to kill _us_.

A futile effort, I admit. I'm just a weed you found, pretending I'm a lovely flower because you told me so.

Because you lied, I live a lie.

That's the truth, isn't it? Or is it, maybe...

"Fuck!"

I can't keep track anymore. I have forgotten who I am supposed to be. I don't know who I was before you crowned me with daisy chains.

Almost funny... _almost:_ I'm not even on this list. They did not add your greatest crime—our fault because we never told them.

You cut deep when I followed you—always following you—to Karakura, but the deep cut was just another lie. Like an April storm, you left me battered. But not broken. Smiling down at me, you said, "Why so gloomy, Ran? I saved you one last time," and then slowly walked away.

Like always.

A secret blasphemy kept between you and I, invisible on the these pages and clear as day to me. So, overall, I'd say your showing is pretty weak. Just like your defense because you never gave one. They questioned you, and you just sat there in your cell humming to yourself. I'd bet my life you were bored to tears.

But you don't cry—not ever.

_"__The detainee Ichimaru Gin is hereby sentenced to soul dissolution."_

Well, I'm…

Satisfied or suicidal. Resigned or mutinous. Gleeful or despairing. Placid, giddy, shocked, resentful, terrified?

Or all and none of the above at the same time.

Conflicted but never free.

I don't care which expression I paint on my face anymore. So, Gin, which one do you love best?

Don't you remember when I told you, _"_There's too many _purtiful_ flowers in the meadow. You pick one for me!"

_"Final Request_: _'Let Ran do it when spring comes.'"_

Better pick fast because it's coming quickly, Gin. Because you will see my face too soon.

Once I cried when fall turned all the leaves brown, but you promised spring would come again to turn them green once more. "Bigger and better than ever," you assured me. And that promise still binds me to the crown and vines and noose.

I wonder if you know:

I love you. I love you. I love you. I love you too much.

I hate you. I hate you. I hate you. I hate you too little.

I will always love you in the growing season and hate you at harvest time and love more than ever next year.

"Ahh!" I exclaim because my transient hatred is a piss-poor replacement. It doesn't grin like you do; it doesn't go around, handing out bouquets to blue eyed weeds.

Unwilling tears obscure the evidence, watering the words and spreading the ink like petals.

I will not be reduced to this. You told me once, "My Ran does not cry." I drink in the face of unpleasantness, finding fuzzy springtime in the bottom of my cup. I wave when you walk away because I know as sure as grass is green that you'll return soon. You promised.

Gin.

Please...

You said that you would never make me cry.

_Betrayer._

I should have known you were lying

_Deserter._

when you said you'd always come back.

_Murderer_.

I am a child again, and you're smiling, holding out carnations like they alone would keep us alive. And I think to myself, "All I need is you."

That's not sane, distorted and rose-colored.

You're suffocating me with those dead daisy chains. Something exquisitely twisted, woven bits of my soul like so many dried petals. Death by writhing memories—it is beautiful somehow, to die with a smile plastered on my face.

Because I know as surely as we are both liars that a grin is the one you love best.

And it's comforting to know that we'll share smiles one last time before I kill what's left of us in the spring.

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A/N:

_Bellis perennis_ is the Latin name for wild daisies, which symbolize "do you love me?"

Ceil is a hue of blue. If you what to know what it looks like, look it up on wikipedia. (They have a nice color wheel.)

"daisy chain" was originally a one-shot; now, it is a flash fic because the most recent chapters gave me more to work with. This little project will be six chapters with dream-ish sequences in between like _Tricrossed_.

~ Mare.


	2. viscum album

_He found her, a fragile flower struggling for sunlight in the shadow of ugly weeds._

_She was perfect, trusting eyes and honest smiles, covered in dirt but her beauty undiminished. _

_He was not perfect, not trusting or honest or beautiful. Whether covered in dirt or clean as rain, he would never be a flower. _

_But he dared to make her his and reach for sunlight too, growing in a protective circle around his fragile flower. Nurturing and nourishing her, he hated the world which tried to starve her._

_He kept the shadows at bay and spiraled upward as Ran thrived._

~o~

_Now he wonders why he ever thought he could protect her. Just a weed, incapable of real love. The baser elements, ugly and wild like jealousy or greed, must have drawn him in._

_Because a weed will only ever be a weed, always throwing shadows on beautiful flowers and choking out the sun._

_How he could have overlooked the choke-hold he wove around her?_

_Soon, he will tell her—reminding her one last time— that he tried to love her as well as any weed can love a flower._

_He will tell Ran that once or twice she boomed for him and he was sure he touched the sun._

**_

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_**

A/N:

_Viscum album is the Latin name for mistletoe, which sybolizes parasite(s.) _


End file.
